


all the flowers of all the tomorrows

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Awkward Flirting, Compulsion, Crush at First Sight, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Getting to Know Your Crush when He's On the Run from the Cops, Kissing, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Devotion, Wingman Georgie Barker, everything's the same except Martin owns a flower shop instead of working for the Institute, how do I cram 3.5 seasons of podcast into the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 19:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19235713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: Martin owns a flower shop.He starts crushing on the guy from the Magnus Institute, but why does Jon keep needing so many flowers for workplace deaths, anyway??





	all the flowers of all the tomorrows

**Author's Note:**

> it's the almost 15k flower shop au that no one asked for, i'm sorry  
> sees myself out

The cheerful little ding of the bells tied to the door came when Martin was prepping a planter.

It meant he was covered in dirt and flower food, which meant he couldn’t just rush to the front of the store. It meant the shop looked deserted, which made for an easy target for your occasional bad person; yeah, they’d been robbed before, however sad that was. Who robbed a florist? One of the part-timers had made a joke about _guns and roses,_ at the time, which Martin hadn’t found funny at all since _he’d_ been the one on duty when they’d been robbed, but– no. No. They weren’t getting _robbed._ They’d been robbed _once._ That’s why they’d gotten the bells.

Martin took a deep breath, and turned his head towards the curtain separating the front and back to call, “I’ll be with you in a minute!” Then he was hurrying to rinse his hands and make it back up front before their not-robber could get annoyed by their response time.

It didn’t seem to matter much. The man that had come in wasn’t at the counter, instead mulling about the shop and looking so incredibly _awkward_ that Martin’s first (well, second, since the first had been _clearly a robber’s come in)_ thought was _this is a man who doesn’t know anything about flowers._

Those were the fun ones. Getting to work directly with people who needed something but didn’t know exactly what they wanted. There was more creative freedom in his job when he got to help that way. Not that he minded the others, but this was more _personal_ than a call over the phone requesting _I need a dozen red roses with whatever vase is the cheapest._

Martin put on his best smile, and went to join his customer. “Hello! Sorry about that, you caught me in the middle of arranging. Did you know what you’re looking for today, or just browsing?”

“I… honestly have no idea what I'm looking for,” the man admitted.

Oh, his voice was kinda nice. Really nice. Actually, he was just… nice in general. Kinda wavy hair, dark eyes, a confused curiosity in them as he looked away from the displays of flowers and up at Martin. He was cute. Hot.

Wow, Martin liked guys.

He hadn’t taken this job with the hope of _meeting guys,_ because a lot of the people that came in were women, but every so often there were some really cute guys that came in to buy flowers for their girlfriends and stuff, and that was nice. Nevermind _whatever vase is the cheapest,_ romance wasn’t _really_ dead. But anyway, sometimes nice looking guys came in, and Martin wasn’t being weird at all.

“I was sent to get flowers, although why they’d send _me_ is honestly beyond any of us. But, to clarify, no,” the customer continued, and Martin nodded and swallowed down that tiny rush of nerves.

Time set to task. He was _good_ with flowers, if nothing else. “That’s alright! Is there an occasion that you’re looking to buy for?”

“Sympathy. Or…remembrance, I suppose.”

Oh. Not romance like he’d expected. But maybe that wasn’t fair, even if sympathy arrangements came in over the phone a lot and not in person. Martin switched tracks in his mind, already picking up ideas for the best flowers from memory, and said, “okay, did you want to build something of your own or look at our pre-arranged collection?”

This guy looked so _lost._ He didn’t look like the type to have ever stepped foot in a flower shop. He looked so _overwhelmed_ for it. Martin had to bite his lip not to smile, because it wasn’t _funny_ or anything, especially when he was buying _sympathy_ flowers, but… no, focus.

“Or, if you’d like, I can put together an arrangement for you,” he said gently. “It’s no trouble. That’s what I’m here for.”

“I…” The man’s relief was nearly _palpable._ “Yes. That would probably be for the best. I barely knew her. I _worked_ with her, and I’m taking her position, but… sending me to the florist with the advice of “‘don’t fuck it up,’” an exaggerated accent here, and Martin truly _had_ to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh because _God,_ that was inappropriate, “still remains to be a true mystery as to _why me.”_ He puffed out a short breath, and then had the wherewithal to look slightly surprised with his own outburst. “Sorry. It’s been a… an odd week, I suppose.”

“No apologies needed.” He had seen worse. _Heard_ worse. Far worse. Grief made people do… strange things. He knew firsthand. “Come up to the counter and we can get things sorted. When do you need it by, first of all?”

“Thursday. It’s, uh… yes, a remembrance event. At work. There’s photos, and food, and… mingling.”

Martin nodded. “Okay.” So it wasn’t a funeral service. That got rid of a few choices. “And I’m guessing the… um, department? chipped in, and sent you as the proxy.”

He nodded. “Yes, exactly that. I’m supposed to get something from all of us.”

“Alright, no worries! We’ll get you something squared away, let me just grab– oh, there it is.” He went to grab his book, pulling the pencil from where it was tucked behind his ear.

 

Jon, that was his name, did end up picking a standing display (rather blindly, looking exasperated) but left the actual arrangement for Martin to decide. Those were less fun than working with the customer directly– okay, so, he loved his job but it got a little… well, he wished he had a _little_ more communication with people, it got a little… _quiet_ sometimes– but he was confident in his own skills in _that_ regard and, well, he had a feeling Jon wouldn’t know a good bouquet from a bad one, which took a little pressure off.

 _Still,_ he was going to make the best arrangement he could. That was his job, regardless of if the guy was cute or not. And he wasn’t capitalizing on _sympathy_ that way. That was just gross.

… he kind of wished Jon _had_ been in for roses. At least a girlfriend would have meant he would have been back, but, oh well.

Ships passing in the night. Martin chewed on his eraser, and made a few more notes on the color coordinations.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

“Perfect. Just these, please.”

“Oh, good choice!”

“Can’t go wrong with roses. Well, usually.”

Martin smiled as he rang the customer up. “There’s a story there, isn’t there?” he joked, because this guy was one of those customers that was friendly and radiated charm and Martin knew he could get away with it. He liked people with a good sense of humor. It passed the time.

The guy laughed, looking around the store. “Oh, yeah, plenty, actually. You know, I didn’t know this shop was here? If I knew there were florists closer to the Institute, I would have come in a long time ago.”

“We are kinda off the beaten track.” He handed back his change. “Are you a teacher, then?” He didn’t really look like a teacher, but it was safer to say than _student,_ Martin thought.

“A–” In any case, the man looked _genuinely_ amused. _“Christ,_ no. The Magnus Institute.” Martin perked up. That was where Jon's flowers had been sent, so many weeks ago. “Specializing in the, uhhh, _esoteric and paranormal,”_ the man said, all air quotes and gentle sarcasm.

Well. Martin hadn’t known _that._ So they were, what, paranormal investigators? Like Ghost Hunt UK? He didn’t ask. Instead, “oh! I did an arrangement for them a few months back. Jon, he came in.”

“Oh! You’re the one. That was really nice, actually. Jon’s my boss.”

_Oh._

“Thanks for picking them out, he’s hopeless. Probably would have come back with a bunch of daffodils or something on his own.”

 _Was_ he that hopeless? He had seemed lost, but… huh. That was kind of endearing… ah, but the guy was waiting on him to hand him the bouquet of roses he’d picked out. God, Martin, what are you doing?? “I’m just glad it worked out,” he said, quickly handing them over. “I’m sorry for your loss, you and your Institute.”

“Oh, yeah. I didn’t know her, really.” He shrugged. “Thanks, though. And for the flowers.” He nodded. “I’ll probably be back, who knows! Life’s pretty unpredictable that way, huh?”

Life really did find a way to be.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

The charismatic guy was back two days later. Another dozen red roses picked out before Martin had even left the back room.

“You’re thinking,” the man said, watching Martin, “‘either the date went really well or he’s royally fucked something up.’”

“I was _not,”_ he protested. He had been, but that was too personal for someone who’d only been in twice, and Martin probably wouldn’t have asked a regular, anyway.

The man just waved a hand and _laughed._ “You could have asked, I don’t care. Neither really applies, though, they’re for someone else this time.”

 _Oh_ again. Not that there was anything wrong with that. A part of Martin was even, like, _lucky guy._ He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a date. Actually. Yes, he could. Because it was so long ago that it was pathetic. Not that he was really _looking,_ but…  

“It’s my boss’s fault, honestly. He’s the reason I have to buy so many people so many flowers.”

“Could you not talk about me like I’m your _pimp?”_ a voice asked, annoyed, and _oh, oh!_ Martin hadn’t noticed _Jon_ had come in _with_ this guy– he must have slipped in while he’d still been in the back, too–

“Ooooh, big word, boss,” he said, as Jon came into view from around a trellis of morning glories. “Didn’t think you knew it.”

“How is it my fault you choose to extract statement information by _wooing_ every one of the people involved?” Jon muttered.

“Sometimes, we woo, Jon.” He braced his arms against the counter. “Or, at least, _I_ do. By the way, I was telling…” He leaned forward, squinting at Martin’s name tag. _“Martin?_ here, how nice the flowers were. For Gertrude’s thing. Since you were hopeless.”

“I still don’t know why you didn’t come to get them,” Jon muttered, and then looked at Martin. Okay, one chance meeting and months apart was still giving him butterflies, okay– “They were nice, though. Thank you.” He sounded _awkward,_ but genuine, and… and the months didn’t look like they’d been particularly kind to Jon, really. His hair looked a little more unkempt, there were dark smudges beneath his eyes, and he was still squinting at his phone even as he took his glasses off to scrub the lenses on his shirt.

“New job not going well?” he asked, and then… didn’t… know _why_ he had. Pointing out the bags under someone’s eyes wasn’t _cute._

Jon stopped mid-scrub, blinking a little owlishly like he hadn’t expected Martin to ask. _Fair._ Who asked a stranger that? But then he smiled, wry, something so small it was _barely_ a smile at all, and the butterflies threatened to eat Martin whole. “It’s taking some getting used to,” Jon said, and slipped his glasses back on. “We should go, Tim, Elias–”

“– can just chill for ten minutes.” Tim interrupted. “All work, _no_ play. But fine, before he gets any more overbearing. You think if I gave him these roses, he’d stay off our arses?”

“I really don’t think he’d be flattered, actually.”

“No, probably not– bye, Martin!” Tim called.

“O–Oh, yeah, have a nice day!” Martin stammered, barely having enough mental faculty left to raise a hand to wave them out. There was so much here, he felt like he was being swept out to sea or something, he didn’t know where to _begin–_

Jon glanced over his shoulder, barely raising two fingers in a goodbye wave himself, and…

… and Martin… he, he had to go sit down. Right now.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

The door crashed open. The cheerful little warning bells went sailing from the door, landing haphazard a few feet away, and Martin nearly fell off the rickety old stool thinking _robberrobberrobber_ before he realized the ‘robber’ was Jon from the Magnus Institute, and he’d already decided Jon from the Magnus Institute _wasn’t_ a robber.

Although, right now, he kind of looked like he _could_ be. Something was _wrong._ If the hair on the back of his neck wasn’t standing up already, it would be now, looking at Jon. He looked… he was a mess.

“Jon…?”

Jon turned the lock on the door, and flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.

“Hey,” Martin protested, getting up. “Who–”

“You’re closed.”

“I am??”

Jon straightened up, spinning to face him. And he really _was_ a mess. Clothes rumpled, hair tousled, looking like he’d seen a _ghost._ Or worse. What was worse? Martin didn’t know, but Jon had seen it. “I need your help.”

“You…” Martin blinked, stopping in front of him. “You do?”

“I’m–” Jon glanced at the front window, and then back at Martin. “God, this is going to sound strange–”

“This is a little beyond that already,” Martin said.

Jon laughed, once, humorless and– God, was he _shaking?_ “I need somewhere to lay low, for a bit. And I need to use your phone.”

“I…” Something wasn’t right. Something was _so_ not right. His heart had started pounding when Jon had all but taken the door off its hinges in his haste to come in, and whatever this was, it wasn’t _good._ “… okay.”

He didn’t know why he said it. He shouldn’t have said it. He didn’t _know_ Jon. It had been _months_ since he’d last stopped in, although Martin had seen Tim a few more times. He didn’t know either of them. He shouldn’t trust any of them. He didn’t know why he said _okay._

“You can… there’s a phone, in the back, you can use. C’mon.”

He wanted to stand at the other side of the curtain and eavesdrop on Jon’s conversation. He really, _really_ did. It was his shop (well, his mom’s, but he’d taken over when she’d gotten ill) so he could _technically_ stand where he wanted and Jon didn’t seem to be overly concerned if Martin had left the back or not.

“… hi, Georgie. It’s– It’s Jon. … yeah. … yeah, I know. … I’ve… listen, you have full reason to tell me to just… sod off right now, but I– I _really_ need your help.”

That was as far as he got, Martin. It felt too _wrong_ to stand there and listen when Jon sounded like that. Vulnerable in ways a guy like Jon didn’t seem like he should be. That conversation he was having with Georgie (? a girlfriend? a boyfriend? it didn’t _matter,_ God, Martin) was private. Martin swallowed the lump in his throat, and went to write a sign to stick on the door. And then he’d turn off the lights. If they were pretending to be closed, he was going to make sure they _looked_ like they were closed.

Jon startled him again when he stepped out of the back. “Sorry. For the inconvenience.” He nodded to the haphazard sign Martin was taping up.

CLOSED DUE TO PERSONAL EMERGENCY; CALL FOR URGENT INQUIRIES

Martin shrugged. “Deliveries already went out earlier, it’s okay. We’re not, you know… super busy or anything. And there’s only the back, and– and the cooler, and I don’t really think you wanna hide out in there–”

Jon cracked a tiny smile. “I’ve had worse.”

He looked like he had. He really looked like death. Wasn’t like he was going to say that, he still couldn’t believe he’d pointed out how tired Jon had looked the last time he was in here. (Months. It had been… well, late last year, probably. Some people you just didn’t forget.) If Jon had looked tired then, he looked… Martin didn’t know. He wanted to reach out and… push his hair from his face and hug him, maybe. But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

“D’you want some tea?” he asked instead, and Jon looked bemused, and tired, and then grateful.

“If it’s not too much trouble. Thank you, Martin.”

 _Martin._ He wondered if he remembered his name, or was just reading the stupid name tag again. Either way, it was nice to hear, in Jon’s voice. _Martin._

“Right, come on. We don’t really do, uh, _entertaining_ so… there’s a little table, and we’ve a kettle, and I’m actually good at tea.”

“If you’re as good at tea as you are sympathy bouquets, I’ll be fine.”

Jon said it so offhand, like it was _nothing,_ but the compliment settled warm into Martin’s chest and he swallowed as he filled the kettle with water. “Oh, uh– I’m… I’m glad you liked the flowers.”

“I should probably get more, actually,” Jon muttered, hands seizing at his sides and then relaxing, even if the look on his face didn’t.

The prickle at the nape of his neck again. “Gertrude?” Martin guessed shortly, and Jon shook his head.

“A friend. She was…” He cleared his throat. “She was a friend, at work.”

Someone _else? Another_ one from Jon’s work? That was… “I thought you just worked at the Magnus Institute,” he said. An archival job was so… _ordinary?_ And the Institute, he drove past it a lot on his way from work. It was a bit of an old, spooky sort of looking place, but maybe that was just how Martin had remembered Tim saying _“esoteric and paranormal”_ influencing his thoughts. But it was an _academic_ institute, anyway, right? Why were there so many deaths??

“That’s the problem,” Jon muttered, and all but sagged into one of the shitty chairs at the tiny little table in Martin’s back room.

“Shit, Jon–” Martin took a step forward. And wrenched to a halt, because there was _blood_ on Jon’s _cuffs._ Just the one, the left one, but definitely blood, still definitely fresh. Blood. Actual, real blood.

Jon noticed him staring. Tugged his jacket back into place. “It’s not mine,” he said, and then seemed to rethink it. “Or… would it help if I said it was?” he asked, sheepish.

That should have been scary. Maybe it was. Martin was… he didn’t know. Maybe he was in shock. For all of his consistent worry of being _robbed,_ Jon showing up with blood on him didn’t scare him as much as he thought it should have.

“So,” he said, and okay, his voice had pitched up a little. Maybe he was scared. He turned back to making tea. “So, you– you’re on the run, from… something? Or someone? And you just… decide to come here.”

“Yes.”

“To the florist.”

“… yes.”

 _“Why?”_ Martin asked in exasperation, because it was so patently _stupid_ that he just couldn’t understand.

“I…” Jon stopped, sounding a bit stymied himself. And then awkward. And then resigned again. “I don’t know, really. I suppose I just… panicked. It’s not like I really have anywhere else to go, now."

 _Not like I really have anywhere else to go._ Martin stared down into their mugs of tea.

“But.” Jon cleared his throat. “I’ve a friend. The one I called. She’s– she’ll be here, in about half an hour. So I’ll be out of your way then.”

Right. That was… good. He should… he should probably _not_ be worried about Jon. Jon, with blood on him. Jon, hiding from something. But he was concerned, anyway. “You’ll be okay, then?” he asked suddenly, turning to set down the mug. “With her?”

“Thank you. And I should be, yes.” Jon curled his hands around the mug. Martin couldn’t help but stare at his hands.

He… liked hands, in general, really. He’d always liked watching his mom do the flowers when he was little. Why he’d wanted to help out. (He hadn’t planned to take over, but, well, life happened.) And he liked to watch people work with their hands in general. So he liked hands. But that wasn’t really why he was staring at Jon’s.

Jon had… scars? Martin supposed. But not normal scars. Not like those normal scars you got from normal everyday life, from slicing your finger when making dinner or something stupid like that. Jon’s scars almost looked like… small, circular ones, like something had entered his skin and burrowed in there. _Like gunshot wounds,_ his mind supplied, but that was stupid. There were too many, clustered too close together. And it almost looked like Jon had them on his _neck_ as well.

Martin didn’t know. But he was almost positive they hadn’t been there before.

“For the time being,” Jon continued, low, and Martin frowned.

“For the time being?”

“Oh, nothing.”

That was a reflexive response. Dismissive. But Jon had _scars,_ and looked so utterly _destroyed_ compared to the Jon who had come in claiming a new position at his job when he'd been buying flowers for Gertrude. And now this, sitting in Martin’s flower shop, drinking Martin’s tea. “I think you should quit your job, Jon,” he murmured.

The look that crossed Jon’s face was so very briefly _terrified,_ and Martin knew he was _absolutely_ not meant to see it.

Conversation was scarce afterwards. Jon’s friend– Georgie– showed up early with all the concern that Martin ought not to be feeling for someone he didn’t know. Good. He could leave it to her. That was better. That was safer. For both of them, probably.

“Go out the back,” Martin said. “Jon, I mean.” He looked at Georgie. “If you pull the car around, you can pick him up without the street cameras recording. Just in case they... look for that.”

Georgie looked surprised, maybe, for a half second. And then nodded, and went to follow the suggestion.

Jon _didn’t_ look surprised. Martin was pretty sure he was in shock, too. His gratitude was genuine, if not awkward.

What did you say to someone who was involved in something he ought not to be involved in and had come to your shop to hide out? Martin didn’t know. So, instead:

“Jon, I’m– sorry. I don’t really know what’s happening, but, um… I’m sorry it is.”

The smile that wasn’t really a smile was even less than a smile than usual. “Yes, me too,” Jon said softly. So softly, and just for a moment, Martin was staring and he thought maybe Jon was staring back. But the glazed look in the man’s eyes probably didn’t speak much by way of anything other than a terrible day, and Jon continued wearily after a moment. “Be seeing you, Martin.”

It sounded like he _didn’t_ expect to _be seeing him,_ though. When he left, Martin wanted to run after him.

He didn’t.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

“You know Jon?”

The noise that came out of his mouth was absolutely a bit of a shriek. Even worse, he spilled half his tea on the floor, because he hadn’t _heard_ anyone _come in._ Oh right. He hadn’t fixed the bells when they’d broken. Stupid! His own fault.

“Sorry.” It was the woman from last week, Jon’s friend. Georgie. She looked at him for a moment, and then, eyes softening, stooped to help him mop up the tea with the handful of tissues he’d grabbed. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Thought you knew I was here.”

“No, no, my fault,” Martin babbled. “I forgot to fix the door, earlier, the bells came off the other day and I never picked them up, and they’re just _somewhere_ now–” Wait, she had asked a question. About Jon. “Er– Jon. No, not really. I mean, he’s been in here, but I think I’ve met him like… um, three times, maybe?” It was _definitely_ three times, but he didn’t want to say _definitely._ “You’re a friend of his?”

“His ex.” Martin swallowed, and Georgie stood up. “… so, yeah. Probably one of the only friends he’s got. I’m worried about him, and he’s not being straight with me. I thought maybe you knew something. The Institute isn’t telling me _anything._ I’m not sure I even want to ask. But you two seemed familiar. As much as Jon gets with people, anyway.”

“I’m just the florist,” Martin said awkwardly, going to bin the sodden tissues. “We haven’t really… it’s not like we’re friends or anything. Um, there was… Tim, I think?”

“Tim’s apparently _not_ a good choice right now, if Jon has anything to say about it. And Melanie’s been _odd,_ too. I don’t know. He’s got _cops_ showing up at my house, for God’s sake.”

 _“Cops?”_ Martin repeated, and if his voice pitched embarrassingly high, Georgie didn’t seem to notice. Jon really had been on the run from the cops.

“They aren’t telling me _what_ they want him for, just that they’re trying to find him. Whatever they think he did–”

“He didn’t do it,” Martin interrupted, and Georgie definitely, _definitely_ took notice of that. “Er.” _God,_ his face was on fire. Why had he said that?! He didn’t _know_ him! They’d sat and had tea for, like, twenty minutes!

“I thought you didn’t know him,” Georgie said, like she could read his mind. Maybe he imagined that she sounded a tiny bit amused.

“I mean, I don’t, I just…” He clenched his hands. And then smoothed them out, staring at a cheerful display of chrysanthemums. He felt like they were mocking him, after the week he’d had. “Whatever they think he did, I don’t think he’s that type of person, is all.”

He still didn’t know what he was saying. Or why he was saying it. He’d gotten a _vibe_ from Jon: a good one. That he was genuinely a good person who was caught up in something _terrible,_ that whatever was going on at the Magnus Institute was ruining his life but it wasn’t turning him into a… monster or something. He knew Jon was a good guy. He trusted him.

 _… yes,_ he knew that was how people got killed nowadays. He _knew,_ alright??

Georgie must have been looking at him while he was zoning out. She smiled, just then, a strand of hair falling down past her shoulder. “I see why he likes you.”

“He–” Martin couldn’t breathe, for a second. What was Georgie even saying? “He likes me…?”

“He thinks you’re nice.”

“Oh.” _Nice._ Nice wasn’t good. Nice was friendzone. He hated being _nice._

“Maybe _too_ nice.”

Martin laughed slightly. Yep. That was him, _too nice_ Martin.

Georgie leaned in, stretching up on her tiptoes to look at him more closely. “Are you so blindingly loyal to _everyone_ after meeting them three times, or was it just love at first sight?”

Martin’s eyes widened. He took a step back, and the small of his back rammed into the flip-up counter. “Ow– I– oh.” Shit. _Shit._ He knew he was obvious, but was he _that_ obvious? And this was Jon’s _ex,_ too. Who was a girl. So Jon dated girls. Which didn’t mean he _didn’t_ date anyone else, but it didn’t mean he _did._ And he was being called out on it. Which, again, having a crush on a straight guy wasn’t a bad thing! If Jon was straight. Which maybe he wasn’t. But that was okay. Either way. But _being called out on it by the person you were crushing on’s ex-girlfriend–_ “I’m…”

“Calm _down,_ Martin.” Georgie laughed, resting her hand on his shoulder. “Come on now.”

He groaned, turning to put his face in his hands if only for the extra layer of safety. Just so he didn’t have to keep looking her in the eye. So she didn’t see him _blush_ like he was. “Is it that obvious…?” he garbled.

“Martin, I’m _teasing_ you. I used to date him, remember? I know what it looks like on another person.” Georgie gave another short, dry laugh. “But also, no, nothing is ever _obvious_ to Jon when it comes to this kind of thing, so you’re safe there. Trust me, okay?”

Tim had said something about that. Not in the same context, but he’d called him hopeless. And Georgie was calling him oblivious. All in good fun, Martin was sure, he could _tell_ by the way Jon’s friends said it, but… maybe… maybe if Jon was as thick as they made him sound on some regards… maybe he _hadn’t_ noticed… He swallowed another noise of displeasure, and had to lean forward to brace his elbows on the counter just to keep himself upright. “Please don’t tell him……”

“Why would I tell him? You’re a grown man, _you_ can tell him yourself if you’re really interested,” Georgie said. “And I mean, straight out tell him. Because if you give him room to misinterpret it, he absolutely will.”

Georgie was… giving him dating advice. Giving him dating Jon advice. He didn’t know Georgie. He barely knew Jon. What kind of rabbit hole had he _fallen_ down here??

“And even if not…” Georgie continued. She was a little more serious. A little more contemplative. Martin didn’t look up, but he did listen a little closer. “You should try to be his friend. He needs friends. He’s a good guy, but he’s _bad_ with people. And he really… I think he really needs people, right now.”

“He has you.”

“Yeah. And I think I’m the _only_ one he has right now.” Georgie sighed. “Me and The Admiral, and that just fucking _sucks.”_

“The Admiral…?”

“My cat.”

“Oh.”

This was really too much. Jon on the run from the police. Jon’s ex-girlfriend showing up to tell Martin to ask him out (which also implied Jon was into guys, too, so, yay on that? God.) The mental image of Jon playing with a _cat–_ okay. Focus. … which one was he even supposed to focus _on?_

“I’ll give you his number,” Georgie said shortly, reaching over the counter for a pencil. “His temp number. Don’t share it, don’t put it in your phone as his name if you save it. He’s just got a burner right now.”

The Twilight Zone was playing in his head. _Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo._ Martin watched her write down Jon’s number on his abandoned crossword puzzle, and then he thought he said goodbye when she left. Maybe. He hoped he had, because that was rude if he hadn't, but.

The last time anybody had given him their number had been never, and the last time that someone had given him _a_ number, it had been a prank gone wrong back in university, and he didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t _really_ like the idea of getting Jon’s number from not-Jon but…

 _“Trust me,”_ Georgie had said again, on her way out.

Martin already trusted Jon and… he trusted Georgie, too. A friend of Jon’s was a friend of his, for no other reason than a gut feeling that they were _good people._ Or maybe it was just because he was _lonely,_ but he didn’t want to think about that, either.

… maybe he would text him.

Martin stared at the numbers scribbled on the newsprint.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

 _Hi. This is Martin Blackwood,_  
_from the flower shop. Your_  
_friend gave me your number._

It took him over a week to send that text. And it took him a whole _hour_ to write it, to work out what to say and how to say it and then to actually press the _send_ button. And then to put his phone on silent, throw it onto the sofa and pretend he didn’t _have_ a phone for the better part of another twenty minutes.

When he finally got up the nerve to pick it up again, there wasn’t a response, so it had all kind of been for naught, anyway.

Right. Well. Why would Jon text him back, anyway? They didn’t _know_ each other. He’d told Georgie that himself.

… nevermind that he’d like to know him. Jon seemed like he probably had bigger fish to fry right now, anyway.

More was the surprise when he got a text late evening, a whole twenty-four plus hours later.

 _She mentioned. Thanks for the help_ _  
_ _last week._

That was… such a boring response, considering Martin had texted him _yesterday afternoon._ But then, what did he expect, he guessed. He hesitated for a second, because was he meant to text back right away? Jon had taken a _whole. day._ Then again, if he was on a burner phone, then maybe he wasn’t checking it or… yeah. That probably made sense. Bigger fish to fry.

He didn’t have the patience to prolong a response, anyway. It messed with his head to not message back right away.

_No problem. How are things?_

_Unchanging, mostly._

_Although I was sick._

_Oh._ This time, the response was almost immediately forthcoming, one text after the one. And an explanation for the delay. A totally _normal_ one, too, whatever that was worth when it came to whatever was happening with Jon. And, okay, it wasn’t like Martin was _glad_ that Jon had been sick, but… it also kind of… made him _happy_ that there had been a reason he hadn’t texted him back? Maybe… a little… even though that sounded _really_ bad…

_Sorry to hear :(_

_Feeling better now?_

_Much. Just needed the right_ _  
_ _medication, so it seems._

 _Yeah, that’s good! Take care_ _  
_ _of yourself, though_

_Insofar as much as I can._

Insofar as much as I can. God, he was… _a lot._ And he came off as a bit of a lot, really, with his collared shirts and sophisticated glasses and the way he held himself. A bit high-brow, Martin guessed. But he had helped him fumble through his confusion with flower bouquets, and he’d watched him curl over that mug of tea the other day, and Jon didn’t really seem so… put-together, in those moments. Those were good moments.

_… can I help with anything?_

_No._

_You sure?_

_Positive, Martin. Thank you._

_If you say so…_

No response came after that, and that… shouldn’t have surprised him. It was a natural end to the conversation, but he didn’t _want_ it to be. He was good at carrying conversations, but this was different for the fact that a) Jon wasn’t really a friend yet and b) he was actually trying to flirt with him instead and he absolutely was terrible at that.

The only thing he really knew about Jon was where he worked and that he had no other friends, and he knew which one he _shouldn’t_ bring up. Oh, but it did remind him of something.

 _Georgie said she has a cat,_ _  
_ _right?_

_Yes?_

_What kind of cat? I love cats_

_And dogs_

_Animals in general, really,_ _  
_ _actually_

_It’s a black and white cat._

Martin spluttered, slouching down on the sofa. A black and white cat. Well, that was… that was definitely a description of a cat. So, add that to the list of things Jon apparently didn’t know much about. Flowers, and cats.

 _My neighbors down the street_  
_have an orange ragdoll, she’s_ _  
_ _a sweetie_

_[IMG_341 attached]_

_That’s her!_

_… did you take this photo through_ _  
_ _their window?_

_No!_

_I mean, she was sitting on_  
_the windowsill, so?? There’s_ _  
_ _nothing wrong with that!_

 _You took a photo through their_  
_window._

_I wasn’t CREEPING!_

Being called out for taking a picture of his neighbor’s cat. He’d be offended if this wasn’t really sort of… domestic? Thank God Georgie had a cat, honestly. He had a feeling bringing up the Institute wouldn’t be domestic.

Two minutes. Three. He wasn’t counting or anything.

Finally, another buzz.

_[IMG_79 attached]_

Martin blinked, watching the little loading symbol spin around in the blank space. God, his spotty wifi was going to kill him. He was about to switch on the data when it finally popped up. Then he just kind of froze with his thumb poised to reply, because he hadn’t really expected a photo, anyway, but he definitely hadn't expected a photo of _Jon._

Sat on an old suede couch that looked well-loved, in some t-shirt and sweats, knees drawn up to his chest. The cat, The Admiral– the black and white cat– was perched on Jon’s knee, stretching up to rub up against his jaw or face. Or hand, as it kind of looked like Jon was trying to _stop_ The Admiral from headbutting his face. And meanwhile, gaze slightly off camera and looking disgruntled.

 _Sorry, ignore that. Georgie took_  
_my phone and apparently thought_  
_it’d be funny to take an unflattering_ _  
_ _photo._

Martin scrolled back up, disregarding the latest message. Unflattering. No. Thank God for Georgie. Thank God for Georgie–

The little details were… God, they were tripping him up. Jon, looking so… _casual._ Messy hair, glasses pushed up to the top of his head. And in _pajamas,_ what were clearly pajamas, which was _logical,_ since he was, well, as close to being at home as he probably could be right now, and especially if he’d been feeling poorly.

And scars. He definitely had scars. A lot like the ones on his hands, except Martin could actually _see_ the patterns of them on Jon’s bare arms. There were the little circular ones– entry/exit wounds, but then ones that were like… trails. Like _veins,_ maybe. Martin didn’t want to know how he’d gotten those. He _really_ didn’t think he wanted to.

Moving on, sure, maybe Jon looked a little annoyed at the impromptu photo, but that was a whole other kind of familiarity that came with friendships. Like being annoyed at your friends but not _really_ annoyed? Fond annoyance. That was the look on Jon’s face. The fondness was barely there, but… the whole thing was so very relaxed.

Martin must have been forgetting to breathe. He had to suck in a sharp breath, then, as he hesitated with his thumb over the photo. _Cute._ Jon was _cute._ Gorgeous, even, but _definitely_ cute all rumpled like that. And maybe it wasn’t exactly _fair,_ considering Jon hadn’t sent the photo on his own free will, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t _known_ about its existence, it wasn’t like Martin was doing something _terrible_ by staring at it… by long-pressing on the image and saving it to his phone.

_Georgie’s cat is cute :)_

_He’s something for sure._

Idle texting, back and forth for a little while. Mostly about Georgie’s cat, and Georgie, because he _absolutely_ wasn’t going to bring up the Magnus Institute when Jon looked so _relaxed,_ and a little bit about Jon when Martin found a way to be sneaky about it. (Jon liked walking to work, and visiting the same donut shop Martin did.)

Eventually, though, Jon stopped texting back. It took about fifteen minutes before the next message came through.

_he fell asleep - g_

That, in itself, was endearing, too. Martin smiled, leaning his head against the back of the sofa.

 _Oh! Okay! Let him sleep. I’ll_ _  
_ _talk to him later._

_yeah_

_have a GOOD night, Martin =D_

He squinted at the smiley. _And_ the capital letters.

_Thanks… you too._

Martin dropped his phone into the cushions, and buried his face in his hands.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

Jon missed the Institute.

Martin wasn’t sure what it was about the place, but it was like Jon _needed_ to be there. Like something was pulling him back, no matter _what_ was happening there, no matter what had happened… and probably whatever was _going_ to happen, if Jon went back.

And… Jon was going to go back.

Staring out the window of Martin’s shop, mapping the streets back to the Institute in his mind. Martin wasn’t a mindreader, but he didn’t have to be. Jon was just looking… _wistful._ He wanted to go back.

“You didn’t come to look at flowers, did you?” The accusation was gentle, teasing, really, but still true. Even if Jon hadn’t said _why_ he was dropping by.

“Sorry, I–” Jon pulled himself away from the window. “… I could lie, but everyone tells me I’m a terrible liar.”

Martin gave a tiny smile. “Yeah?”

“It’s not like I can _really_ spy on the Institute from here, but at least pass by without seeming _overly_ suspicious…”

This visit was about the Institute, which… Martin had kind of figured out pretty quickly. That was fine. He’d just let Jon do his own thing, skulk about the shop wearing an old denim jacket with _What the Ghost?!_ embroidered on the back, and a baseball cap. (Yes, really.) Martin handled customers in the meantime, doing his job until there was nothing left to do and Jon was still staring out the window.

Maybe he was a little… jealous? of whatever hold the Institute had on Jon. Maybe _that_ was why he spoke before really thinking twice about it. “Why do you wanna go back, Jon?” he asked quietly, and Jon’s eyes flicked up to meet Martin’s.

“I…” He frowned, a barely there movement of his lips twitching down. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I _really_ don’t.”

“Yes, you _do,”_ Martin retorted. He heard the stubbornness creeping into his voice, but he didn’t _care._ He was a little bitter, actually. He was a little jealous and a little bitter over _The Magnus Institute._ He couldn’t help it, though. “We all have choices, you make them without even realizing it, sometimes.”

“Yeah, I’ve been given that speech before.”

“Guess you didn’t listen,” he muttered.

For a split second, Jon looked… well, it looked like that had hurt him. Then it smoothed away, Martin was left nursing his own spark of guilt, and Jon continued, “I’m _tethered_ to the archives, Martin.”

“What does that even _mean?”_

“You wouldn’t understand.”

His financial log cracked as it hit flat against the counter, but Jon was the only one who looked surprised. _“Bullshit.”_ Martin managed to say it mostly under his breath, thankfully, he just… really, _really_ hated that argument. “Jon, I don’t _care_ if you want to hang around the shop. That’s fine. I _like_ having you here.” _More than you seem to realize._ “But you just… you show up here, running from the cops, the other day you show up with your hand half burned to hell, lucky I had aloe, you know, since you said you _can’t_ go to the hospital. But you won’t tell me why. And _don’t,”_ he interrupted, as Jon opened his mouth, “tell me it’s safer if I don’t know.”

“It _is_ safer.”

“Didn’t I just _say–”_

“There is so much more here than you know, Martin.”

“Because you won’t _tell_ me. You’re supposed to talk about the things that are bothering you. That’s good for you. That’s _better_ than staring out the window, pining over a job that’s killing you.”

“You have no idea…” Jon muttered.

 _“Talk_ to me, then.”

“I _can’t.”_

“Right.”

That was just about what he’d expected. He’d gotten to know Jon without _knowing_ Jon, but he had guessed that much right. And it was _frustrating._ Frustrating after the pining and the secrecy and the _blood_ and the threat of cops and every little injury and scar Jon kept ending up with, most of which _Georgie_ was the one to tell him about, not that Jon _owed_ him the explanations but… you know what? At this point, he kind of did.

Martin wasn’t asking for the world here. Even a shred of honesty would have been nice.

“Georgie was right.” She’d warned him. She’d been a great wingman these past few weeks. She’d given him the bad with the good, which had been… appreciated, but he’d ultimately decided that bad always came with good and Jon was just awkward around people. Guess he’d underestimated that. “You really do push everyone away,” he murmured.

“… what…?”

“… well,” a voice from behind him said, and Martin shrieked, grabbing the first thing his hand landed on on the counter top and spinning around to brandish it at whoever had come in behind the desk–

Georgie blinked, and then used the back of her hand to push Martin’s away.

“Oh! God!” Martin dropped the corkscrew, taking a step back. “Georgie, I’m– I’m so _sorry–_ I forgot I gave you keys–”

“No harm done.” She looked between Martin, and Jon, and then back again. “Looks like I turned up just in time to get him out of your hair.”

“I–”

Oh, God. _God,_ what had he been saying? Why was he _jealous?_ Why was he _bitter?_ _He’d_ been the only one who had let Jon do this. Let Jon walk all over him. Jon had never claimed it was anything else. Never made any indication it ever _would_ be. Maybe they texted. Maybe they were friends– or, or, _Martin_ considered them friends, now, but it wasn’t anything _else_ and _he’d_ been the one to allow it, so Jon really, _really_ didn’t owe him anything. Jon was just _scared,_ in a bad situation, and Martin had been _helping._ That was all.

He was just… frustrated. And sad. And he just wanted Jon to stop _hurting himself…_ but then, he wasn’t even following his own advice.

… he was tired.

Georgie nudged his shoulder, and then walked around him. “I’ve got him, Martin.”

“… right,” he said, and then all but fled for the back.

“He’s right, you know,” he heard Georgie say.

He didn’t wait to hear Jon’s response.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

“I’m sorry.”

_“Martin?”_

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, about the other day, I shouldn’t have _said_ any of that–”

_“Martin.”_

“I’m just– I was just _tired,_ Jon, these past few weeks… l–look, I know that’s shitty to say, considering what you’re going through– whatever you’re going through– but I’m just– I’m just _Martin,_ I’m just… I’ve got a terrible flat and a tiny flower shop and the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me was falling asleep at the laundromat and waking up locked in one time–”

_“Martin–”_

“So, all of this with you has been… _a lot,_ and I know it’s a _lot_ more to you, and you definitely, _definitely_ don’t owe me–”

 _“Martin,”_ Jon interrupted, sharp. Almost scolding.

Martin stopped talking. He was a little out of breath.

_“You don’t need to apologize.”_

Martin chewed at his lip. “I really do.”

_“I took advantage of your hospitality.”_

“No–”

 _“You’re right,”_ Jon said, and Martin froze. _“I do… push people away. It’s been an… ongoing problem.”_

“… oh?” His voice came out tiny. He didn’t know what else to say.

 _“It’s just…”_ Jon sighed, a puff of static through the phone. _“It’s been hard to trust people these days.”_

Self-aware Jon was… huh. It _wasn’t_ really what Martin was… used to? And he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t say ‘I know,’ because he didn’t know. Well, he knew how hard it was to trust people, because he didn’t really have many people that he trusted, either, he guessed…

“Yeah,” he muttered miserably, and held the phone tighter to his ear as he was silent, and Jon was silent, for a little while.

_“Oh, I wanted to give you my usual number. I– I won’t have this number, much longer, so you’ll need the usual.”_

_Oh._ For all of his talk about not trusting people, he was… offering his number. His actual mobile number. “Not just the burner?” Martin asked. “Is that safe?”

 _“Yes.”_ Jon paused. _“I went back to work.”_

“Oh.” That bit didn’t surprise him. “So you’re… cleared? About everything?”

 _“Thankfully, yes… all taken care of, now._ For _now.”_

“For now…” Martin echoed.

 _“As ludicrous as it is, Martin, I…_ want _to work.”_

Martin flushed. He hadn’t meant to sound… accusing, considering the point of the call–

_“There’s things here at the archives that need done. Things only I can do, so… I need to do them.”_

… it was hard, to stay annoyed at him. Actually, he’d stopped being annoyed at him afterwards, as quickly as he’d lectured him the other day, but even now… listening to Jon talk about the archives so furtively… Martin clutched his phone a little tighter, and closed his eyes. “You sound like a good Archivist,” he said softly and, whatever it meant to _be_ Archivist, he didn’t doubt that was true.

Jon laughed, just once. A tiny sound of sarcastic mirth that still settled into Martin’s bones, warm and familiar and so very _wanted_ despite all of the weird hiccups that had been going on with their friendship.

_“God, Martin, I really hope so.”_

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

“What can I do to make it up to you?”

The tingle started at the base of his spine, and radiated to the tips of his ears.

Jon showing up at the shop shouldn’t surprise him, at this point, but it did. It still made his heart start to race in his chest, still managed to get his palms to feel clammy as he looked across the counter to return Jon’s gaze, inquisitive and warm. His eyes were so pretty. And the way his hair curled over his forehead, Martin wanted to touch it. But Jon was asking him a question, and Martin had to answer.

“You could kiss me.”

Jon’s eyes widened.

For a moment, that was all, so very matter-of-fact. And then Martin realized what he’d said. What _had he said ~~––~~_

_Why had he said that?!?!??_

“Wait– waitwait, I didn’t– that wasn’t–”

“Oh– _Christ,_ Martin, I’m _so_ sorry–”

“No–” Wait, why was _Jon_ apologizing? _“I’m_ sorry,” Martin babbled. “I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t know why I said that. Just ignore me–”

_“Jesus.”_

Martin cringed. “I didn’t mean that.” He did, but why had he said it?? And why couldn’t he think of anything to say _now,_ when clearly he’d been doing _such a great job a second ago–_ “Obviously, that’s… I wouldn’t.” Wait, that sounded bad, too. “I mean, unless–”

“Unless…?”

… he was on fire. He was actually going to just burst into flames. Actually, he thought he _wanted_ to. “Nothing, nothing. I’m just– I’d be happy with coffee!” he blurted, and why had he said _that?!_ He was _babbling, goddammit–_

Jon looked a tiny– _so_ tiny– bit displeased at that suggestion, too. “I don’t like coffee.”

“Oh!” Martin laughed. He sounded hysterical. He felt hysterical. “Well, okay, that’s good, because–”

“How about tea instead?”

Martin stopped. He was gaping like a goddamn goldfish and he knew it, but he didn’t know what to _say._ Because he’d already said enough. _More_ than enough! But Jon was asking him out for tea, and all Martin could do was nod.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

Jon was _awkward._

Martin had really underestimated the extent of it. He really got the brunt of it when they went out for tea, the first time, and then the second, and the third– repeat. Jon was always awkward, but he was also _warm_ in ways that Martin was only starting to learn to expect these days. He was only just getting used to that. Just like he was starting to get used to the smile, the small smile, the one that it seemed like only _he_ could get out of him. The one that made his heart threaten to jump right out of his chest, and take off screaming down the street because he was _on a date with Jonathan Sims._

Was it a date? Were they dates? Martin… thought so? But then he’d started to think maybe it was just wishful thinking, until–

 _“Is this dating?”_ he blurted to Georgie one night. _“Are we dating?”_

– she’d dated Jon, too. She had experience. She’d _know._

 _“You’re dating, Martin,”_ she’d said. _“Trust me, this is just about the full extent of his mating call.”_

Martin had upended his carton of mushroom lo mein, and Georgie had laughed so hard The Admiral fled her lap.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

“What’s this one for?”

“Graduation. That’s why it’s been so busy.”

“Oh.” Jon leaned his elbows on the counter, and pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “There’s not many blue ones, are there?”

“Um. No, not really.” This wasn’t working well. The color combination was _garish,_ but when it was a direct request, what could he do except work it the best he could? “There’s… there’s a lot of dyed flowers, these days, a lot of hybrids? But there’s always, like… forget-me-nots and morning glories and delphinium. And bluebells. Or even hydrangeas, but in comparison to red or white or pink…” he trailed off.

“And these are…”

“Oh, those are just sweet peas. They’re fillers, see? Fill in the space between and add a bit of color, too.”

“And they have special meaning?”

“All flowers have a meaning,” Martin said, “like… sweet peas are kind of, well, it does depend. Generally speaking they mean, like, small pleasures? But also in the context of graduation, it’s a bit more… thanks for fond memories, but it’s time for me to go? So graduates are starting their new lives.”

“I see.”

“Or, you know,” Martin said, flashing a tiny, tired smile. They really had been busy, lately, and this bouquet wasn’t working with him. “People just pick flowers because they’re pretty or a nice color. It’s not always that deep.”

“Well, they are nice. These, er, sweet peas.”

He couldn’t help it; he laughed, yes, and he was laughing at Jon.

“What?”

“You’re doing it again,” Martin said gently. “The ‘I’m going to pretend I’m remotely interested in any of this’ flower thing.”

“It is interesting.” Jon gave a small shrug. “I’ll admit it isn’t exactly my forte, but it’s nice to only think about… flowers, now and then.”

“They _can_ be good stress relief.” Martin set the bouquet aside to continue with in a minute. He needed to count down the drawer soon, anyway. And he had a mess here to clean up. He picked up one of the stems, one of the broken ones of sweet pea that he’d lost during arrangement. Always a shame, that. He hated it when they broke off, or they lost the blooms. It always felt like… a waste.

He looked up at Jon, looking at his mess of flowers, and then quickly slipped the stem into Jon’s shirt pocket.

Jon glanced at it. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, y–you know.” He shrugged. “I can’t use it, now, but it’s sad to just throw it away, soo…”

“So,” Jon repeated.

“So I’m… giving it to you?”

“Why?”

“I–” He didn’t get it. Of course he didn’t. Martin laughed slightly, and went back to cleaning up. It’d help dispel the embarrassment, anyway. He was really, really good at embarrassing himself. “I’m giving you flowers, Jon. That’s… that’s the joke.”

“Oh. I think–” Martin looked up in time to see Jon pluck the flower from his pocket. “– flowers…” he continued, and Martin was frozen as Jon leaned across the counter to slip the stem behind Martin’s ear. “… suit you better.”

That was… Oh, Christ, that was nothing and everything. Such a silly little gesture, but… so inherently _romantic._ Martin swallowed, and then, “are you– are you flirting with me?” he asked, stupidly, like this wouldn’t be _exactly_ flirting in any other circumstance with any other person, but he _had_ to know. He _had_ to ask.

Jon’s thumb toying with the hair near Martin’s temple stilled. Now it was his turn to look a little contrite. “Am I doing it wrong?”

“No, you’re–” So it was intentional. God. He hadn’t expected– they’d been out three times and Georgie hypothesized he and Jon were definitely dating, but… “You’re, um, you’re definitely doing it right.”

“Oh, good.”

Jon didn’t move his hand. Martin tried to swallow down the butterflies in his stomach, but they weren’t going anywhere.

“I wondered if you’d still like me to kiss you.”

Nothing and everything. Something and nothing. _Everything and everything._ Martin was scrambling, and now his mouth was dry. He couldn’t speak. Somehow, after a moment that felt _so_ long, he managed to nod. Nod very furtively. And then he found his voice, because it was just as _important:_ “if you… want to?”

“Yes,” Jon said, and leaned in to kiss him.

The hand that had been at Martin’s ear slipped down to rest on his shoulder, and Martin didn’t quite know what to do with his own hands, either, so he ended up just bracing them against the counter. It was a little awkward– a lot awkward– and Jon kissed like he didn’t really know _how_ he was supposed to, but then, that was okay, it was _more_ than okay.

Martin didn’t have much practice, either, and they had all the time to learn together.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

“If you wanted, I could stay late so we have some time to do something this weekend–”

“I’m going to be out of town.”

“Oh.” Well, that was a little disappointing. It felt like Jon had only just gotten back from America. And yeah, _yeah,_ he knew it had actually been like a whole month, but Jon hadn’t really… _come back_ from America. He had, physically, and everything, but there was just something… off. Martin hadn’t asked. Jon hadn’t offered. He’d just trusted that Jon would tell him anything if he needed or wanted to. And, anyway, it had been a _work_ trip, so. That was still a can of worms he was trying to be patient on. “Okay! Won’t work late then,” Martin said. “Going somewhere cool?”

“Great Yarmouth.”

“Ooooh.” Resort town? Okay, he was jealous. “What for?”

“A… er, a wax museum,” Jon murmured. Something about his voice was… _off,_ but–

“Wax museum?” Martin repeated. “You… wait, you don’t mean Louis Tussauds House of Wax?”

Jon looked up, eyebrows furrowed. “Yes. But how do you…”

“It’s, like, the _worst_ wax museum ever. Those places are like… fundamentally spooky anyway? But that one was _really_ creepy. It was like a national treasure.” Now it was his turn to frown, because “didn’t that place close down like three, four years ago, though?”

Jon shrugged. “At some point, yes.”

“Then, how–”

“It’s for work.”

“… oh, God.” He didn’t know why the words slipped out, really, except Jon’s work was paranormal and _dangerous,_ and they were going to the most cursed looking wax museum there had ever been. Not that there was anything fundamentally dangerous about wax museums, but that bad feeling you got from _thinking_ about places like that had just blown into something far, far worse. “Why are you going to an abandoned wax museum for work?”

It didn’t help that Jon looked uncomfortable. Because he definitely looked uncomfortable. The bad feeling was getting so much worse. “There’s… something we need to look into.”

“‘We?’”

“Just me, and the assistants… Tim, Basira, Daisy… the usual.”

“You’re _all_ going.”

“Well, not all, there’s–”

 _“How,”_ Martin interrupted, “dangerous is this?” How dangerous, because Jon’s job was dangerous. How dangerous, because it didn’t take two archival assistants and one part-time assistant _and_ the Head Archivist to check out a defunct wax museum, so there was _something wrong._ Something dangerous.

Jon shifted, and then… sort of just gave up. “Fairly so,” he said, reaching up to pull his glasses off. That made Martin’s heart sink, but only partially because of the response. The verbal one. Because the nonverbal one was worse. Jon’s shoulders slumped when he dropped his glasses into his lap, and he put his face in both hands to rub his eyes. For a second, for that second, Jon just looked utterly defeated by the weight of it. Whatever ‘it’ was.

“Fairly so,” Martin repeated. “You… are you coming back with more scars?”

“That might be the least of my worries.”

Martin thought he might have been forgetting to breathe, a little. “What do you mean?” Jon didn’t reply. _“Jon,”_ and the words slipped out before he could really think about them, or what saying them out loud meant, “you _are_ coming back, right?”

Saying them out loud made them _real._ They almost got stuck in his throat. His voice cracked on the syllables, and he swallowed the lump building in his throat. It was just a wax museum. It was just a _wax museum–_

“I hope.”

“You _hope?”_ Martin exclaimed, pushing away from the sofa. He scrambled to his feet and Jon had to sit himself up straight to not fall over from his absence. “What does that mean?!”

“Nothing, just–”

“It’s not _nothing!”_ Yes, he was yelling, because, _yes,_ he was panicking. “You might– you might _die,_ doing whatever you’re doing at the wax museum, which I _still_ don’t know what it is you _actually_ do–”

“Martin, not _now–”_

“Yes, Martin, now!” He was _shrieking,_ but he couldn’t _help_ it. How was he supposed to just– just listen to Jon say _I hope_ when he was looking so defeated?! “I want to know, Jon, if you’re running off to… to do God knows what that might _kill you–”_

“It’s not–”

“If you’re about to say ‘it’s not _important,’_ I might actually just leave.” Because he couldn’t stand here and listen to _this–_

“This is _your_ flat, Martin.”

“I can find somewhere else to go, I’m sure.” Who was he kidding? He didn’t have anywhere else to do. _“Tell_ me, Jon.”

“It’s too _dangerous,_ Martin,” Jon said, and barreled on before Martin could interrupt because he’d heard _that_ before. “Just for now, everything that has been _happening_ is about to reach the crescendo, so if you just–”

“No ‘just.’ Not anymore, Jon, _please.”_

“When I come back.”

Martin stopped. Somehow that… still surprised him. He’d been giving him ultimatums (okay, this was only the second, but he wasn’t _good_ with ultimatums) to no avail, and now, suddenly, Jon was… taking his words into consideration, he guessed? Or he was just doing it to _placate_ him. But it didn’t sound like that. It didn’t _look_ like, when Jon was looking at him the way he was.

Martin couldn’t quite… put a finger on it.

“A reason to come back.”

“Oh God.” He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until after the fact, and then had to turn around to compose himself. He didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know what to say at _all._ He just… wanted to cry. But he wasn’t going to cry. No, not this time. Even though Jon was saying all of this when he was prepared to lay down his life for an _archiving_ job. _God!_ “That’s _selfish,_ Jon.” He meant it to come out as severe, but it just… really didn’t. “You know how selfish that is, right?”

“I know.” He didn’t sound apologetic, really. Just tired. “Just a little more time, Martin. Please.”

“I…” _Tell him ‘no.’ Tell him ‘no,’ You know he’s had more than enough time to tell him these secrets, they really_ do _involve you now,_ especially _if he’s doing something that’s going to get him killed and you’re just left here_ waiting. _Tell him ‘no,’ Martin._ “… fine.”

He never was any good at avoiding unhealthy behavior. The things you did for the people you loved, huh.

… God, he did love him. That was a tiny bit scary, loving this secretive, anguished man with literally all of his heart. But he did. He did.

He wiped his eyes, and then turned to fix him with what he hoped was a determined stare. “You’re telling me when you get back.”

“Right…” Maybe he imagined that Jon looked a little stunned. Or maybe he was. Maybe… maybe he thought he could just push him away, if he tried hard enough, if he excluded Martin from enough of his plans. Maybe… it really was that. “Right,” Jon repeated, with a tiny nod. “When I get back.”

“Promise?”

If his voice shook a little, neither of them remarked.

“Promise.”

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

“Hey, Georgie–”

_“Martin–”_

He froze. It was curious, really, how quickly his entire body just went so _numb._ He couldn’t think. Wait. Scratch that. He could. It was just. Not constructive. Just. Jon’s name, over and over and _over._

Over and over…

 _“There was an explosion– E–Elias said, he said we need to meet him at, um, fuck, I wrote it here somewhere–_ Jesus! _Fucking Jon!”_

“Georgie,” he whispered. “Is he alive?

_“Yeah, I– I– yes. Elias just said we need to be there, he wouldn’t– wouldn’t tell me anything else over the phone.”_

“The address. Text me the address.”

_“Right. Right. Just–”_

“Text me the address,” he repeated urgently, dropping the bouquet to go grab his keys.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

Jon was in a coma, and Georgie told him everything.

It all sounded ludicrous. The attacks on the Institute and the Entities they needed to stop. Jon being an _avatar–_ maybe not even being human– and all of it _would_ have sounded crazy except… Jon wasn’t breathing. His heart wasn’t beating. All… _normal_ body function wasn’t… well, he just… should have been dead. He should have been dead. He _was_ dead. Except he wasn’t.

The doctors didn’t understand.

Martin didn’t understand.

 _God,_ he didn’t understand.

“What _is_ the Magnus Institute…?”

“I don’t know.” Georgie hadn’t moved since they’d gotten here here, eyes on Jon’s face, silently willing things that Martin was, too. “I don’t know. All I know is what he’s told me. But it’s something bad– and Elias didn’t even say if they’d stopped this… ritual. I guess, maybe? Since reality seems… fine, as fine as usual… God, and Tim…”

Martin sighed, hand seizing around Jon’s.

He ought to be scared. He _was_ scared. But as much as he wanted to run away, he wanted to stay even more, because… whatever this _was,_ whatever it was, even now that he knew the truth, or most of it… he couldn’t leave. He didn’t think he’d be able to. So, he was stuck, and… he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Well, he would have liked it better if Jon wasn’t constantly in danger from his own patron or the other Entities or mannequins or worms or spiders and– and he… really wished he wasn’t in a coma, half inhuman… but…

Martin wasn’t going anywhere. He’d made up his mind before he’d even had a chance to think about it.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

_“Martin Blackwood?”_

“Mhm.”

_“Hi, Martin. This is Shawna, from Bellflower Care Home. I’m sorry to call so late, but we needed to inform you that your mother passed away peacefully in her sleep at–”_

The phone slipped from his fingers.

Georgie’s head snapped up.

Martin was frozen in place, and time, and _anguish._

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

He thought he did a pretty good job at keeping himself together. Well, minus having to park the car on his way to the care home to throw up. And falling to pieces at the funeral after everyone else had gone. And having a panic attack at the shop, mid-shift, mid- _transaction,_ nearly hyperventilating himself into passing out because he couldn’t breathe.

They called Georgie for the last one. The paramedics must have gotten her name out of him. Or his co-workers told them. Or they got in his phone and saw how pathetic his contacts list was, and picked the one he clearly talked to the most. The only person he talked to at all, these days.

Anyway, he didn’t feel any better after the oxygen, or curling up on the back room floor with a blanket wrapped too tight around him, or sipping at the tea someone had given him. He definitely didn’t feel better with the emergency staff watching over him. He didn’t even really feel better when Georgie showed up to take him… wherever.

“You need to take some time off, Martin.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t keep _working_ like this.”

“I _have_ to work.” His voice cracked. He shouldn’t be able to _cry_ any longer. And he knew the terrible irony, that his mom didn’t deserve the tears after everything she had put him through, but it hadn’t been _her_ fault she’d gotten sick and dad had left anymore than it was _Jon’s_ fault he was still in a coma, and Martin… Martin felt like he’d been crying for almost four months straight, now. Goddamn, he felt like he’d been crying his entire _life,_ which wasn't _true,_ and he knew it wasn't true, but it was just… he was so _tired._ "I have to…”

“You’re running yourself into the ground,” Georgie said quietly.

So? _So?!_ He wanted to yell it. He didn’t. It would have come out a sob. The tears came, anyway. He was going to spend the rest of his life crying, too.

“Marti– ah, shit. Martin, I’m so sorry. I am _so_ fucking sorry.”

_Me too. Me too. Me too._

He could only grip the hand she took off the wheel to offer him, hold onto it so tightly it had to hurt both of them. Georgie didn’t complain. Martin didn’t have the strength to.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

Nobody reprimanded him as he ran through the hospital. He’d been here six months. They all knew him. They all knew why he was here, and if they didn’t know why he was here _now,_ running full tilt through the hallways, they probably thought the worst.

But it wasn’t the worst. It was the best. It was the first time Martin had felt anything other than grief and heartbreak and utter fucking loneliness in the past six months.

Georgie had done her best. And she _had_ done a lot, honestly, honestly been the only reason he probably kept his head above water as it was. But their common tie was Jon, and Jon being not-alive-not-dead for six months had taken its toll on both of them. He was grateful, he really was. But he had still spent the past six months sad, and tired, and grieving, and some things just couldn’t help that.

But this… this was the most alive _he_ had felt in ages.

He threw open the door to that old, familiar hospital room, and Georgie _and_ Jon both looked back at him in surprise.

Beautiful, _aware_ Jon. A little pale, still groggy, with his hair a little too long and a little greasy. At least mostly clean-shaven– he and Georgie had alternated on that, doing what they could– fingers fidgeting with the oxygen cannula at his nose. He looked back at Martin, hand falling away to the bed. Awake. _Alive,_ as much as that meant for Jon, these days. But Jon. Jon, Jon, Jon Jon JonJonJonjonjonjonjon–

Martin didn’t realize he was saying it out loud until he staggered across the room to grab Jon’s hand.

Just like that, crying again. He didn’t much mind this time.

“Archivist,” he found himself saying eventually, smoothing his hands along Jon’s face and through his hair and fixing his IV and oxygen lines. Fluttering. He was fluttering. “My Archivist. My stupid, _stubborn_ Archivist–”

Jon’s eyes slid sideways, settling on a teary, tired Georgie sat at his other side. “… you told him.”

“I _had_ to.”

“She had to,” Martin agreed, and then slipped his arms around Jon’s shoulders to pull him into hug. The angle was awkward. Maybe hurt the both of them, a bit, but he didn’t complain, and Jon slowly turned his face into Martin’s neck. “I’m sorry, Jon,” he breathed, burying his face in his hair. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, that you’ve– you’ve dealt with this _alone,_ that I wasn’t there for you, I should have been there for you–”

“I’m…” Jon’s voice trailed off. And then picked up again. “… sorry I didn’t tell you,” he muttered, sounding a bit confused and a lot tired and more than ever, a little more vulnerable. Genuine. “… sorry.”

Martin, with the full knowledge he couldn’t protect him either way, held him tighter.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

“Oh, you must be Martin– Jon’s Martin. You wouldn’t be looking for him, would you?”

Martin glanced back, coming to an uncertain stop in the middle of the aisle. The archives were _big,_ a lot bigger than he’d always imagined, looking at the Institute from the outside. “Yeah,” he said, looking at the man before him. Short, a little portly, grey eyes and a beard. “I’ve just– I’ve gotten a bit lost, I think? The receptionist, er, Rosie, I think, she said to take a left but I think I may… missed one. Or taken too many.” He smiled sheepishly.

“The archives can do that to you,” the man said, and then held out his hand. “While you’re here, we may as well get acquainted: Peter Lukas, Head of the Institute.”

“Oh.” Martin blinked, and then hastily took his hand. “Jon’s new boss?”

“Oh, he’s spoken of me. How kind.”

 _A little. Not much. He said you weren’t human, too._ Martin didn’t say that out loud. “Yes, of course, he, uh, he talks about… everyone from work,” he said instead, because that was… true. Sort of true. … kind of. He blustered on. “I’m Martin. But you– you already knew that, ha. Martin Blackwood, the, um.” Actually, what did he introduce himself as? He and Jon didn’t make an effort to hide their relationship, but this was the first time Martin had been to Jon’s _work._ He didn’t want to say anything that would… cause trouble. If that was an issue, here. “Er…”

 _“Very_ significant other?” Peter tried, and Martin blew out a breath. Okay, so apparently he knew. “Elias had mentioned Jon was seeing someone. It’s splendid to finally meet you.”

“You too, of course.” Martin looked at Peter and Peter just stared pleasantly back at Martin. “Um–”

“Oh, _there's_ the man of the hour now.”

Martin turned around to Jon having come around the corner, a mug in hand and Jon… just stopped, on the spot, looking between Martin and Peter and Peter and Martin. Looking almost. Panicked? Maybe. Which, yeah, Peter was pretty… well, _weird,_ but what was he supposed to do, turn and walk away?? Maybe Peter wasn't  _human,_ but Martin couldn't be  _rude._

“I found your Martin, wandering all by his lonesome,” Peter said cheerfully, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Come to see you, no doubt.”

“I…” Jon blinked, and then started stalking across the distance between them. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll take it from here. Take this,” he muttered, shoving the mug of tea in one of Martin’s hands and then taking the other to hold himself.

Martin was practically being pulled away before he had a chance to realize what was happening.

“Well, it was very nice to meet you, Martin!”

“Yeah, um, you too!” he called back.

“What are you _doing_ here??” Jon demanded, exasperated, definitely a little freaked. “It’s not _safe,_ I’ve _told_ you–”

“I’m not staying,” Martin said quickly. “I just– well, neither are you. I came to collect you.”

“Collect me?”

“Yeah, you– oh, and before you argue, remember I just spent a _lot_ of money on it– you spend too much time here, by yourself, with your…” He glanced over his shoulder. “Spooky bosses. So, I, uh, we– we’re going to Lake District,” he said quickly.

Jon’s stride faltered, just for a moment. “I beg your pardon?”

“I booked us a cottage for the weekend, near Windermere? I thought… yeah. I want to get away for awhile, and you _need_ to get away for awhile, and I… I want both of us to get away… together?” he asked hopefully, because this was a _Big Thing,_ a weekend away, but they deserved a _Big Thing,_ even if Martin was nervous to ask. Tell. Ask. Jon could refuse to go–

“Wi–Windermere… Martin.” He sighed, and Martin braced himself for the worst. A telling off and a solo trip to Lake District. But it didn’t come. _“Fine,”_ Jon said instead, sounding a little resigned but a little… amused, too. _Good._ That was good. “I’ll get my things.” He pressed the call button for the elevator, and stepped back. “I’ll get my things, and meet you outside. _Go_ outside,” he added. “I’ll meet you, five minutes. At your car. Okay?”

They were going to Lake District. They were going on a _weekend_ together. Martin beamed, and nodded. “Yeah!”

 _“Outside,_ okay?” Jon reiterated. “Don’t wait for me in the Institute.”

“Okay,” Martin repeated, and couldn’t even be bothered by the whole _dangerous_ quality the conversation was throwing off. He knew the Institute was dangerous. But they were going on _holiday._ “I’ll wait outside,” he promised.

“Good.” Jon took a step back as the doors rattled open. “I’ll be right there,” he said, swiveling around. “Don’t talk to anyone else down here.”

“Okay,” Martin agreed again, and was still grinning even when Jon joined him in his car and gave him a spectacularly annoyed look.

“Why couldn’t you just _call,_ Martin? You know you shouldn’t–”

“Because you wouldn’t pick up your phone,” Martin interrupted, and reached over to tug Jon’s Institute ID badge from his pocket. He tossed it in the back with Jon’s bag. “And this was quicker. You would have found a reason to stall otherwise.”

“It was _dangerous.”_ But he seemed to want to talk about it less than Martin did, really, because he sighed, again, and reached to pull his seatbelt on, and said, _“Windermere,_ Martin, _really?”_

“Lake District is _gorgeous!”_ he protested, and relished in the tiny, tiny laugh Jon gave when they pulled away from the Institute’s lot.

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀

“You know I’m not the same person you fell in love with.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m not.” Jon narrowed his eyes. “That person… I– I was still _Jonathan Sims_ when I came into your shop the first time. I wasn’t the Archivist.”

“You’re _still_ Jonathan Sims.”

He knew, probably, what Jon was trying to do. He was good at it. Trying to escape. He’d always been good at trying to run away (especially given how they'd met) but Martin had gotten good at not _letting_ him. If they were running, they’d be running together, he liked to think. Silly. He knew.

But anyway, they weren’t running anywhere, now. They’d been ambling down Compston Road for a couple hours now, Jon probably the most relaxed Martin had seen him outside of sleep. He wished they could stay here forever, but… yeah, he knew that wouldn’t work, anyway. Jon had brought statements to record while they were here, and it was only a three-day thing. So they had to go back. But Martin still wasn’t letting him run away.

“I’m not human, Martin.”

He wasn’t letting him _scare_ him away, either.

Martin rolled his eyes. “Mark me down as a monsterfucker, then.”

Jon blinked, looking around at him. “What…?”

“Er–” Right, Jon wasn’t so… didn’t know that joke, then. “Nevermind.”

“We’ve not had sex.”

Martin swallowed before he could splutter and choke. “And you’re not a monster,” he reminded, trying to be stern but the ice cream had gone down the wrong way. “Here, just…” He grabbed the spoon, shoving it out towards Jon. “Eat this and stop trying to put me off you and our holiday.”

Jon heaved a _very_ put-upon sigh. Reaching up to take the spoon had their fingers brushing, and Martin grinned as Jon frowned at the chocolate ice cream. “I still don’t understand why you paid a whole thirty pence for sugar strands.”

“I was _this_ close to bubblegum millions and a teddy bear cone, Jon.”

Jon laughed, a huff of breath and then taking a small bite. “You couldn’t have bubblegum on chocolate.”

“That’s the only reason I didn’t.” And because Jon had made a bit of a face, nearly imperceptible but _there,_ when Martin had zeroed in on them. So he guessed Jon didn’t like bubblegum. Or millions. Or _whatever._ But Jon had picked chocolate ice cream, when prompted, and Martin didn’t want to overload on the crazy. Safe was good. Sugar strands it was. “I could have still gotten a teddy bear cone.”

“Next time, then,” Jon said, licking off the spoon.

“We don’t have to head out until three tomorrow. We can still take our time going back, too.”

“Yes… except–”

“I know,” Martin interrupted, offering Jon the cone. “I’ll get you back for work Tuesday, I promise.”

Jon smiled faintly. “Yes… probably necessary, that.”

“Not like you could get fired, though.”

“There is that,” Jon agreed. “But unless you want me compelling scary statements from _you…”_

“I don’t have any. Unless you meant root rot or budworms…” He shrugged, and grinned sideways at Jon. “I ran out of organdy ribbon when I was doing a wedding, once. Lots of panic on my end. Oh! I twisted my ankle when I slipped on water beads. That was scary.”

Jon coughed. Must have choked over the ice cream himself. “I’m– sorry, Martin, that’s not _good,_ but I’m… also quite glad that’s all the stories you have.”

Compared with what he’d heard from Jon, yeah… Martin understood. “I know,” he said softly.

Jon just looked at him, for a moment, with something Martin couldn’t really place in his eyes. Fondness, he supposed. Jon’s version of that. Kind, and warm, despite everything he’d been through. Then he made a soft noise, looking back at the ice cream that was starting to drip over his fingers in distress. “Ah–”

“Here, here, give it, we– we need to eat this faster, um– should’ve gotten more napkins.”

“Or less ice cream. Ugh.” Jon sucked the chocolate from his knuckles, and now it was Martin’s turn to stare. Yeah, _yeah,_ he knew. Silly. He was good at getting caught up in the tiniest things, but Jon was… it was nice to see him like this. Carefree, mindless of anything outside of the melted ice cream at their mercy.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Martin announced, and Jon’s head snapped up.

“What?”

“I’m going to kiss you,” he repeated.

Jon’s eyes flickered between Martin’s lips and the ice cream. “But, it’s melting–”

 _So am I,_ Martin didn’t say, and actually did lean in to kiss him like he’d promised.

Jon groaned softly, a tiny noise of discontent that might have been real if not for the smile Martin felt against his lips. And Jon kept his hands held aloft, probably still sticky with ice cream and his own saliva, and Martin couldn’t help but laugh, a little, at the whole thing. It was ridiculous, and so, so good.

Jon’s voice was a little muffled, but still a little urgent, anyway. “Martin, the ice cream–”

“I’ve got it,” he replied, finally pulling back to keep eating before it could drip onto his trousers. Another quick lick to catch the melt and offering it halfway to Jon. “Here. We’ve got this.”

“If you say so,” Jon murmured, and Martin beamed.

“We do,” he repeated, and Jon gave a tentative smile in return.

**Author's Note:**

> and then jon is gonna jump in a coffin and head off to fight the dark but hey at least martin's safe, right?
> 
> [HEY THERE'S FANART NOW???? ](https://marina-does-things.tumblr.com/post/185767731216)thank you Marina 😭😭😭


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